I’m my mother’s son. Yesterday K. kindly let me put the decorations up. I spend every November awaiting the start of December, fidgeting in my seat like a little kid in need of a wee. Christmas lunch with my Granddad last week for his birthday finally made her acquiesce to a slightly early start to the festive season and I got the boxes of rubbish out of the loft. Those who celebrate advent in all its religious significance—or have one of those Blue Peter candelabras made from coathangers—would agree that today was the first day of the festive period anyway, so yesterday was pretty much Advent-eve.

Armed with a glass of sherry and some fold-up steps I completely Christmassed our front room, with tinsel, lights and a tree (the sherry is essential to the procedure of putting Christmas decorations up according to my Mum.) We put Christmas songs on and performed the traditional task of skipping over Spike Jones’s … Two Front Teeth and the slightly warbly recording of The Birthday of a King by Judy Garland. It was great.

Later we’ll be making mince pies. If Santa Claus doesn’t actually come over when we’re getting them out of the oven I’ll be very disappointed.